


Settling In

by Rozzlynn



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Domesticity, M/M, On the Run, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:13:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21796651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rozzlynn/pseuds/Rozzlynn
Summary: Martin lay with his face pressed against Jon's chest, and his long legs curled up to fit onto the mattress. With a deep sigh, Jon let his fingers slide into Martin's hair, rubbing gently at the nape of his neck. They'd both gone to bed with fleeces on over their pajamas, trying to get used to the low temperatures this far north. Daisy had set up the cottage with a prepaid electricity meter and a mini-heater. The bed clearly wasn't intended for two, but it suited their needs well enough.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 11
Kudos: 173
Collections: Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2019





	Settling In

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ComposerEgg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComposerEgg/gifts).



> For ComposerEgg, as part of the Rusty Quill Secret Santa 2019! I've written this to work as a oneshot, for the exchange. Still, I've got enough inspiration for a sequel, if you'd like more in this 'verse.

Jon opened his eyes in pitch darkness. The Ceaseless Watcher's gaze pierced him, just as it had in his dreams, and his breath lay heavy in his lungs.

The blackout curtains blocked any moonlight that might otherwise have filtered through the windows, though if the incessant drumming of rain was any indication, there was enough cloud cover to quench that light before it ever reached the ground.

Nonetheless, with his infinitely voracious master staring into him and staring out of him, the Archivist's surroundings were clearly visible, just as the rough-hewn tunnels beneath the coffin had been during his nightmares.

Martin lay with his face pressed against Jon's chest, and his long legs curled up to fit onto the mattress. With a deep sigh, Jon let his fingers slide into Martin's hair, rubbing gently at the nape of his neck as he held him close. He could feel one of Martin's arms slung over his waist, a reassuring weight anchoring him to the here and now.

They'd both gone to bed with fleeces on over their pajamas, trying to get used to the low temperatures this far north. Daisy had set up the cottage with a prepaid electricity meter and a mini-heater. The bed clearly wasn't intended for two, but it suited their needs well enough. 

Along the opposite wall, a small fridge stood next to a kitchenette counter and sink. A kettle, a toaster, and a hot plate were laid out next to the bread and tea that Martin had picked up yesterday, when he'd gone out to the village to stock up on essentials. The drawers and cupboards contained a few cleaning supplies and cooking implements, a single plate, bowl, and mug, one set of cutlery, and a wide variety of very sharp knives. Martin had added a pack of paper plates, a couple of plastic tumblers, and the sporks that had come with last night's fish and chips.

A rickety wooden chair with peeling varnish completed the room's furniture, its aesthetic matching that of the whitewashed walls and bare floorboards. There were several small patches of damp around the edges of the ceiling, and a bare lightbulb in the center. 

Jon had busied himself with cleaning for much of the previous evening, while Martin had been out shopping. A house simply wasn't habitable until every last cobweb had been swept away. 

Their rucksacks rested by the foot of the bed, still stuffed full of clothes, in the absence of a wardrobe, and kept close at hand in case they needed to make a quick exit. Their wallets and IDs were safely tucked away inside, along with a couple of burner phones, and the tape recorder that Jon had insisted on bringing along.

Basira had supplied them with the phones and fake passports. Apparently, she'd kept hold of a small stockpile of fake IDs that she'd confiscated after becoming a sectioned officer. Knowing what kind of horrors lurked in the shadows, she'd wanted to be prepared to work under the radar if necessary, though she hadn't ended up bending the rules to the same extent as her partner. After sifting through a few dozen passports, she'd found a couple with photos that could almost pass as younger versions of Jon and Martin, at a glance. With their names plastered all over the news, they'd need to rely on their new identities in public.

For now, the news was listing them among the missing, wanted for questioning regarding the bloodbath at the Institute. They'd have to keep an eye on their phones whenever they were in an area with a signal, in case the reports started referring to them as leading suspects. Several pieces had already noted that Martin had been Peter's assistant, before the interim director's disappearance.

Fortunately, the best photos that any journalist had been able to get hold of were the ones from their staff profiles, taken when they each joined the Institute. Jon's hair had been cut short and severe, black with only a few strands of grey, his skin had been unscarred, and he'd been wearing the prescription glasses that he'd still needed in those days. Martin had been round-faced and smiling, his hair curling softly around his ears, and although he'd been fairly large for a teenager, he'd scarcely looked like the graduate he'd claimed to be on his CV. 

Anyone who saw the two of them in their current state would be unlikely to recognise them at a glance. Jon's hair hung past his shoulders, more grey than black, and he'd started to make a habit of tying it back, despite feeling self conscious about the scars scattered across his face and neck. Before they'd left her apartment, Basira had assured him that the soft expression on his face whenever he was in Martin's vicinity was a new look for him, too.

After almost a year of isolation, Martin had noticeably lost weight, and Jon was determined to feed him up again, to return the favour after Martin had practically thrown food and tea at him during his own periods of self-neglect. During waking hours, Martin's expression tended towards worry and discomfort, though the lines of his face were currently smoothed out in sleep. Basira had cut his hair, leaving half an inch of fuzz for Jon to stroke his fingers through. Though the comparison might not amuse Martin if shared aloud, Jon couldn't help but be reminded of petting The Admiral.

Jon scanned the room, checking that it still contained the two doors that were meant to be there, and no unreal additions. Not that he had any particular reason to believe that Helen would follow them here. But her prediction that _terrible things_ would come to pass had been awfully gleeful. 

Perhaps she'd guessed that the hunters would attack the Institute, and Peter would free the not-them, and a coup would be attempted at the old panopticon. Perhaps she'd expected fewer of them to make it out alive. Or perhaps worse trouble was still on its way. 

He'd tried to reassure Martin that Daisy wouldn't come here, but she _might_ , and as Elias had once told them, she'd never been the only rabid dog among the police. Julia and Trevor might track them down. Or a monster impersonating a friend might knock on their door. The Lukas family might connect the dots, and seek revenge for Peter. Jonah might show them what Peter had meant, when he'd spoken of Jon as a prize in their bet. 

With threats on all sides, it was a miracle that he and Martin had survived this long. Hopefully they'd run far enough to escape most of their troubles. He'd certainly insist as much, if pressed to share his opinion. Martin deserved peace of mind. 

With any luck, they'd be able to stay in hiding until they knew whether it would ever be safe to return to London. If Basira managed to send them some statements once the Institute reopened, then he wouldn't be any hungrier than before, and handling official paperwork might be enough to keep Martin from getting sick. So long as the Institute was closed, the staff weren't _meant_ to be at work, so Martin's absence shouldn't cause him any ill effects.

Tonight, at least, nothing stirred outside their front door. The rain pattered against the wood, a restful sound, in its own way. The bathroom door was still the only other door in sight. 

When they'd first explored the cottage, they'd found a rock-hard bar of soap in the bathroom, but no shampoo or toothpaste. The airing cupboard contained industrial quantities of acid, a large roll of bin bags, and no towels. They'd closed the door without commenting on Daisy's methods of corpse disposal, and Martin had focused on writing a shopping list. Jon had cleaned the bathtub as thoroughly as was inhumanly possible.

In most respects, sharing a safehouse wasn't proving as awkward as Jon had feared. Not that he'd have let awkwardness stand in the way of Martin's safety. But the distance that had sprung up between them this last year had melted away when they'd embraced in the depths of Forsaken, and hadn't yet reared its head again. Martin had kept hold of his hand for most of the trip north, leaning against his shoulder as a series of trains and buses brought them steadily closer to an uncertain future. 

When they'd first stepped through the front door, Martin's eyes had landed on the single bed, and he'd gone rather quiet. Jon had caught hold of his hand before breaking the silence. 

_"Would you like the bed to yourself, or shall we share?"_

Martin had turned to him with a familiar look of irritation in his eyes.

_"Don't tell me you're planning on sleeping on the floor, or staying up all night, or anything else ridiculous. Honestly, Jon - "_

_"No, ideally not."_

Jon had lifted Martin's hand, and brushed his lips against his knuckles.

_"...Oh."_

Martin's face had gone rather blank for a few seconds, until a blush had started creeping across his cheeks.

_"I had to ask."_

Jon had tightened his grip on Martin's hand, waiting for an unequivocal answer.

_"Right. Yeah. We both need to rest, so. Yeah."_

Martin had sounded slightly choked up. He'd hesitated for a few more moments before pulling Jon into a hug. 

_"Do tell me if you change your mind. We can pick up a camp bed in town. I mean, I'm here for you, but if you ever need your space - "_

_"No, not unless you want to. I'm not exactly used to this, but I - if I keep reminding myself that this is real, I'll get it through my head eventually. Come on, let's look around and unpack."_

At this point in the night, Jon didn't expect to get back to sleep, but he must have gotten at least two or three hours of rest. That was more than enough for now. He'd gladly wait here until dawn, letting this moment of tranquility stretch out for hours. Martin was a far sweeter sight than the contents of his nightmares, and it was warm beneath the blankets. 

In the morning, he'd see if Martin wanted toast or fruit bars for breakfast. He'd lie when Martin asked whether he'd gotten much sleep. He'd kiss his hands again, and maybe, if they were both feeling bold, he might pull him close and kiss his face, and then he'd see if either of them could find the words to describe the life they'd found themselves living.

Martin had promised to start writing poetry again. 

Jon had promised to accompany him in the attempt. He'd never been any good at expressing himself in his own words. In all honesty, he'd rather sit and watch Martin write. He'd give it his best shot anyway, to ensure Martin wasn't alone in any endeavour in which he'd asked for company.


End file.
